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Friday, August 31, 2012

Hurricane Isaac has arrived. Except
that he has been demoted to a Tropical Storm. Which would explain the
steady, gentle rain we have been experiencing. With no gale force
winds or torrential rains to report on, I imagine our weathermen
have succumbed to severe Tropical Depression.

This is also the beginning of Labor Day
Weekend. For my non-United States readers that means thousands of
pounds of beef, pork and chicken will be charred beyond recognition
on grills around the nation while people drink beer, fall off of
boats and celebrate those hard workers that DO NOT have the three day
weekend off.

When I was a kid, it was also the Jerry
Lewis Holiday. We would sit around in berets, drink wine, talk with a
French accent and watch The Nutty Professor and Who's Minding the
Store. (Not really, but in retrospect that sounds like a whole lot
more fun that watching the telethon for hours on end waiting for the
Bay City Rollers to perform.) ((-Again, for you non-U.S. People, Mr
Lewis once hosted a yearly telethon for Muscular Dystrophy. It 24
hours of variety show entertainment raising huge amounts of money. We
would always cheer when the tote-board rolled over to show a dollar
amount far exceeding Mr. Lewis's hope, thus causing him to break down
in tears. It was awesome.-))

But, I digress. A tropically rainy day
begs for a shopping trip especially when it coincides with payday and
a day off. It is like a consumerism trifecta.

First stop was the wood store. There is
nothing more to say. The jokes are just too easy.

Next, we hit my favorite grocers:
*Trader Joes and *Whole Foods. I don't shop at either of these places
regularly. Our bank has put a flag on my 'fancy grocery' account.
Also, it is like an episode of SURVIVOR just to navigate the parking
lots. These stores are in an area of the city that boasts a median
age of 35-45 and a moderately comfortable income. Clearly, these
people spend most of their hard earned cash on big ass cars. For
shoppers who want only organic food, they seem to be oblivious to the
fuel comsumption of their chosen mode of transportation. Of course,
technically, gasoline IS organic...

My most exciting purchase today was
beets. Red and yellow. On returning home I promptly prepped them for
roasting. I L-U-V beet salad. I just have a difficult time spending
$9 on one when I go out. So I figured 'why not'? I am a pretty good
cook. I own knives, and an oven. I set to prepping as soon as I got
home. I was aware that red beets bleed. I was not aware that yellow
beets hate people. Probably for making their red breathern
exsanguinate. It took me forty minutes to pare those yellow bastards
into managable pieces. It was only through a bargin with God that I
managed to keep all ten fingers. Not sure how my husband will feel
our children becoming priests, especially since we are not Catholic
and one of our kids is a girl, but I feel it was a fair trade.

So what does this have to do with
Tropical Storm Isaac? I am getting to that.

As the red and yellow devils fried a
firey death...I mean while the beets roasted, I ate lunch and read an
article in the *Riverfront Times (picked up at *Whole Foods). The
story was about a wine box possessed by a Jewish spirit.
(http://www.riverfronttimes.com/2012-08-30/news/true-story-the-possession-dybbuk-box/).
And I wondered what be worse – a hurricane or a pissed off Jewish
Spirit who had been stuck in a wooden box for God (which ever one you
chose to follow) knows how long. Hurricanes cause flooding,
destruction of property and disrupt thousands of lives. Pissed off
Jewish Spirits make your house smell like cat pee and probably make
you feel really guilty for stuff.

My money is on the spirit.

So where does this bring us and what
have we learned from today's installment?

I have readers outside of the US.
(Thank you Canada, United Kingdom, Germany, Russia, India and South
Korea!

*none of these people are
providing paid endorsements. But they should be, I am a fabulous
spokes person.

People from Brentwood probably
hate me. (oops, meant to keep that one anonymous.)

I love beet salad.

I believe in pissed off Jewish
Spirits. (and any other spirit denomination. I am an equal-spiritual
believer.)

and lastly, I really wasn't sure
what to write about today so, sorry.

Have a safe and fabulous Labor Day
Weekend. Keep your eyes peeled for Hairnets, Jewish Spirits, Rogue
Beets and people from Brentwood. (They drive like maniacs in parking
lots but otherwise I am sure they wonderful people.)

Thursday, August 30, 2012

The Coast of Illinois is on Alert! We
have been warned that Hurricane Isaac is moving our way. Our
weathermen are pulling all nighters in preparation. They are practicing waving their laser pointers at simulated pictures of the
Arch as it is pummeled by waves from the Mississippi. They are standing
on overpasses in their raincoats, microphones gripped powerfully,
rehearsing phrases like "Its raining cats and dogs here on Highway 64"
and "Back to you Dave, hope you're dry in the studio" while
camera guys hurl buckets of simulated rain on them.

I imagine the graphics department is
working overtime trying to create just the right icon to depict the
horror we are sure to endure. We have the twirly tornado and the
fluffy snow-spewing clouds which hover in the lower left corner of
the television effectively blocking out the secret ingredient for
CHOPPED. But so far, the only icon for Hurricane Isaac is a multicolored blob. Might I suggest a nice tropical rum drink?

We are no strangers to rough weather.
We have our tornado drills and our snow storm emergency aisle at the
grocery. But I am quite sure – if a hurricane can travel the
676.8 miles from New Orleans to St. Louis and wreak the sort of havoc
it has on the Gulf Coast, well...I don't think any amount of bottled
water and stock piled batteries will save us.

But just in case, I have stocked up on
rum.

(Don't take this installment as a slam
against the true devastation hurricanes can cause. I have a co-worker
whose family had to evacuate and a former co-worker whose family
remains on the Gulf Coast without power. Stories from the healthcare
workers who survived Katrina are horrifying. As I see it, weathermen
are the ones I am going to need to watch out for.)

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

A sample of a AGE-PERFECT skin serum
recently came into my possession. (Okay, fine. I got it out of my
Vogue September issue. No one actually sent it to me.) This sample
touted Instant Hydration, Increased Elasticity and MORE RADIANT, RESILIENT SKIN...after 4 weeks of use.

I haven't really measured lately but I feel that I probably have the typical amount of
facial surface area as the next woman. So here's a news flash,
L'Oreal. That tiny little 1.5ml sample you flaunt at my average sized
face will never last 4 weeks. But, I guess *unpaid reviewers can't be choosers.

The sample was well perforated
providing easy opening. The serum squished out a little haphazardly,
reminding me of some rather disgusting bodily fluid but as the actual
produce – as visualized on the sample card – comes in a cool
dropper style bottle I will assume that actual retrieval of the serum
is less anatomically eewwy.

Basically, the serum stunk. It
did feel nice on my average size face and after many muscular test moves – sticking out my tongue and making 'Scream' faces – I
did notice that my skin returned to its former shape, resiliently
covering my skull. But overall, it smelled. Pretty bad. And that odor
lasted for quite a while. Considering that this was only a miniscule
amount, I would hate to think what sort of aroma would be emitted when the
full size dropper topped bottle were opened.

The best thing I can say about the
sample is at $19.99 for a full size bottle, I essentially received a
$1 sample for the cost of my magazine. That's like the equivalent of
one margarita for the cost of my **Chevy's flautas with mango sauce. That makes this
a pretty good value.

I give it One Average Size, Well-Hydrated,
Super Elastic, Nutria Moisturized Happy Face.

* I am emphasizing this is unpaid. However, I am not averse to being paid for my opinion. I am a creative writer. You WILL get your money's worth.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Today is my sister's birthday. She is
five years younger. This makes me the old sister and makes her the
one who never kept her socks pulled up on her feet demanding that I
tie them together as she rolled on the footstool watching HR
Puffenstuff.

I vaguely remember a feeling of
excitement when Dad told me I was getting a baby sister. It was short
lived. I was forced to pull her around on a sled, which she found
impossible to stay on, always rolling off head first into the nearest
snow bank. SHE got to have her tonsils out and get cool non-birthday,
non- Christmas presents while I was cursed with healthy, yet useless
body parts.

AND we had to share a bed. You rarely
hear of kids sharing beds these days. Just mention to co-workers that
you slept with your sister – the looks range from curious pity to
slight fear with the questions always turning toward the possibility
of a show on TLC.

With the exception of three years away
at school, I shared a room with my little sister. We were thrilled
when Mom and Dad brought home bunk beds. I slept in that top bunk
until I got married. (and NO – TLC is not interested. I have
pitched it. They have asked that I cease and desist.)

Sharing a room for nearly twenty years
will bring a certain closeness to people. Just ask the guys on
LockDown. We share many of the same interests in books, music,
movies. Now. As kids, that five year age difference was like the
Grand Canyon. It wasn't until our brother was born that we began to
bond. That bond evolved slowly over camping trips where she forgot
all her clothes (a classic case of GOT your suitcase vs got
YOUR suitcase) and scary scyfy movies requiring racing down the
dark hall to our bunks before the Alien and the Amityville Horror
teamed up to kill and maim us. (I was faster; she was meaner, but
combined we were a 'heard of elephants' according to our Mom.) It
wasn't until the night we lay in our respective bunks taunting our
brother, IN HIS OWN ROOM, with the fact that we could get him to
scream just by screaming ourselves – well – I knew I had a friend
for life.

Monday, August 27, 2012

I subscribed to a fitness magazine a
few weeks back. It was an impossible offer to pass up. Not only did
it promise me Abs to Die For and Fifty Meals under 75 Calories, the
subscription price was $5 AND if I acted now I would receive the
exclusive Elastic-Muscle Lengthening-Tone Your Entire Body Workout!

My giant orange rubber band came in the
mail on Friday.

It took me a three days to study the
pictures of the smiling models as they demonstrated the Easy to Learn
Moves. Each one wrapped to some degree in the giant orange rubber
band which promised a quick and simple way to strengthen and tone
through gentle resistance.

It took me five tries to secure the
giant orange rubber band under my foot for the first exercise. After
the fifth snap and subsequent curse word my husband sheepishly crept
up the stairs to see if I was OK. He was rewarded with a view of me
on my back, legs in the air, giant orange rubber band wrapped around
my legs attempting to perform what can only be described as a medically unsanctioned alternative birthing method.

He tried not to laugh too hard. I tried not to leave a mark.

Its amazing how far jello thighs can launch a giant orange rubberband.

Friday, August 24, 2012

It's been a busy two weeks for the
Hairnet Watchers. We have had sightings in hallways, elevators and
parking garages. However, I must initiate a new Watcher into the
ranks. This week my Mom spotted her first Hairnet. At first, she was
afraid to speak out. This is not unusual. But watchers remember –
We are stronger when we use our words! After much support from family
and friends, Mom finally told her tale.

She was walking from the grocery to her
favorite Chinese restaurant to pick up Dad's General Tso chicken and
her Sweet and Sour tofu when she spotted a suspicious blob lying on
the sidewalk. She was unnerved but curious. Keeping our instruction
in mind, she approached WITH CAUTION. The Hairnet was pressed against
the brick wall of the strip mall, casually loitering. Making a wide
berth, Mom made the trip around the Net, giving it a withering look
as she passed.

Sadly, there are no photos of Mom's
first spotting. Mom and Dad's cell phone is one of the oldest models
out there and Dad just can't handle wearing the satellite dish on his
head for the length of time it takes to transmit a photo. Thankfully,
a kind police officer was there to document the incident. Below is the police sketch:

Artist's Rendering: Hairnet of medium weave. Believed to be capable of holding in baby-fine to coarsely curly hair.

In less dramatic but no less important news – A rather
large Net was spotted riding the elevator in the South Tower of my
place of employment. Nice job on the photos Mel. I also spotted one
on the slip mat as I exited the elevator in our parking garage. These
parking lot Nets are becoming rather routine and I am beginning to
suspect that they may be part of a transitional program.

Approach with Caution!

Leave this close up Photography to the professionals please.

That completes this edition of RoundUp.
Keep those eyes open people. Weirdness is all around us and once you
start seeing Hairnets, you can't stop!

Thursday, August 23, 2012

On my lunch, so this will be quick. I have made the general observation that there is a direct correlation between the number of initials after a person's name and the number of centimeters too short their pants are.
I believe this is the HighWater Equivalency.
(and take note- I used 'centimeters' as I work in science.)

Hairnet update-there was a very large Net resting on the black mat in front of the garage elevator. It was practicing its evolutionary camouflage. More on this and other sightings tomorrow in the RoundUp!

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Would someone please tell me just what
time frame is covered by the phrase 'back in the day'. I suppose it
is not as far back as 'yesteryear'. Does it cover 'in the good old
days'? Seems like it might be a nice reference for shared childhood
experiences.

However, I am quite certain that 'back
in the day' does not cover events within the last week. Or earlier today. True dat?

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

This blogging thing is cracking me up.
It seems that Google – who sponsors blogspot – provides several
ways to track viewership. This is a luxury I didn't have on the old
site. And as a result, I have become obsessed with the weirdness of my
viewership.

I have readers, not only in the United
States, but also in Canada and Germany – I know who you are! Much
to my delight, I also have readers in Russia! I do not know anyone in
Russia. I do have a nephew in The Republic of Georgia, but they are
quick to point out, they ARE NOT RUSSIA.

This blog is public. So far, I have not
been asked to advertise anywhere and the only links I send out are to
Facebook and Twitter. Yet, somehow, a handful of sites have found me
and it seems they like me (they really like me!) enough to return and
it would appear – add a link to this site. As expected, Facebook
is my highest source of traffic. But there are several I have never
heard of. I decided to investigate the odd sites and – here is
where it gets weird - my second highest referrer is a HUGE PORN
SITE! From the looks of the pictures there, not only is it HUGE as in
busy, it is also HUGE as in devoted to HUGE!

There are some that would say I was
sort of asking for the porn industry endorsement with the title of
this blog. To them I respond – Get your minds out of the gutter.
There are enough Hairnets there already. I am just happy that the
people who go to that particular site find my stuff interesting
enough to return to MY site. And lets face it pervs also need to be
aware of the everyday weirdness.

So, thank you readers! And as a special
thank you to my Pervy readers, my I present...My Neighbors bush:

Friday, August 17, 2012

So, not only am I devoted to getting
people to see the weird and interesting in their everyday life. I am
also dedicated to getting people to eat the weird and interesting as
well. Food, that is, not people. Calm down, that's not what I meant
either, this is not THAT sort of site...

Anyway... I have always been an
adventurous eater and have happily raised a family of the same. We
were enjoying hummus WAY before it was hip. Which leads me to the
introduction of one of our favorite snacks: Scroodles.

These are boiled then fried corkscrew
macaroni. That's right. Boiled. Then fried. And then liberally doused
with garlic salt. The trifecta of dietary no-no's. Totally white
flour CARBS – fried in CRISCO – the covered with SALT.

Yum.

its like my arteries on a really hot day...

Oh, and Sorry about the Suck It, Dr.
Atkins. That was really just an attention getting ploy. I am sure Dr.
Atkins was a wonderfully delightful person, who before he became all
Anti-Carb would have enjoyed Scroodles. God Rest His Soul.

Scroodles. Or, the crap they pull of out or your arteries.

PS - didn't Dr. Atkins actually die of a heart attack? Perhaps if he had re-examined the joy of deep fat fried noodles...

Thursday, August 16, 2012

I attended a training for my day job
yesterday. It started at 0730. Why? Because I work at a hospital and
apparently healthcare is only learn-able between the hours of 0730 and
1600. (That would be 4pm for you sane people out there.)

I am not a morning person. Now wait,
let me be more specific. I was once a morning person before my
mornings began at the butt crack of dawn. Thankfully, opposites attract and my husband, who actually CHOOSES to start his day at the
Sacrum of Dawn – which is even earlier than the butt crack, offered
to drive me to work.

I suppose I should also mention my
disability here. I suffer from car-polepsy. Its like narcolepsy but
in cars. As long as I am driving I am fine. But put me in the
passenger seat and suddenly lottery officials are printing out
tickets for Power Snore in which the winner picks the number of
seconds it takes for me to fall asleep. This may be anywhere from
minutes to well, minutes.

So, on the drive yesterday I was asleep
within the first stop sign. We have several large intersections
between our house and the interstate and it was at the last one that
I woke. I bravely peeked out of my half opened eyes. Sitting next to
me was a van. Not just any van but a maroon van of exact make and
model as the one I have proudly driven since the days of Girl Scout
field trips. I began wondering why my van was driving itself to work.
I then noticed that the woman driver was smoking. There is no smoking
in my van. She began to fidget nervously, presumably from my staring.
I wonder if she has seen me staring because now I think I might know
her. No, she is taller than the woman I am thinking of, but her hair
looks the same and…oh crap, now she is looking at me…

I throw myself back into the seat of my
husband’s car and take a long nonchalant drink from my go-cup and promptly burn the entire first layer of tissue off the roof of my mouth. Man,
that cup really holds in the heat. As he begins to accelerate through
the green light he asks why I am panting and in a cold sweat. I
recite my previous thought process ending with my biggest thought.
“Do other people have these thoughts?”

“No,” he assures me. “No they do
not. No one else I know thinks like you.”

Well. Guess that makes me special...and
still pretty sleepy.

(This is a re-do of a previous post a year ago on my old website. As I am at a conference on trauma again today, I will be well prepared to deal with the burn injury I am sure to sustain next time I am forced to get up at this ridiculous hour.)

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Could someone tell me – just when did
clowns become scary? You mention 'clowns' to any adult I know and
they turn pale, wring their hands and change the subject faster than
Congressman at a press conference.

I use to love clowns. The clowns I knew
growing up were the happy, non-threatening variety. Red Skelton's
Clem Kadiddlehopper, Captian Kangaroo's Town Clown and the
grandfather clown of them all – Emmett Kelley. These clowns were
loveable bums just trying to get by. They stumbled through my
favorite television broadcasts trying to solve problems in their
bumbling mute manor. I could relate to their clumsiness in the way
that only a middle school-er who tripped over the vault horse could. I
just wanted to give them a big hug.

And I guess, this is where the notion
of scary began to evolve. As an adult I wonder, why would anyone in
their right mind want to hug a grown man wearing all that makeup and
baggy clothes? There is no doubt that these clowns smelled – most
likely of 40 ounce malt liquor. It is now obvious that all three were
probably members of some hobo-fueled street gang whose weapon of
choice was disarming charm. Their gang sign was the pantomime for a
train whistle and they most likely had tattoos of the various balloon
animals they created.

I look at the clowns that my children
watched growing up: Ronald McDonald and Bozo. One is trying to kill
everyone with 'happy' meals full of artery clogging fat. Never mind
that his organization provides housing for sick kids and their
families. You scrape away all that goodie-two shoes stuff and you
have a modern day Hansel and Gretel witch luring children to his
french fry play place.

And then there is Bozo. It was while
watching Bozo's Circus that I began to notice the subtext, behind the
makeup, the poorly masked disdain for all those screaming kids. He
would call strange children down from the audience and on local cable
television ask them to play with his balls in exchange for 'a
surprise'. Really?

Driving home from work a while back I
noticed a sign stapled to a telephone pole. In dripping blood red
text it advertised Clowns...and more!! WHAT! From the
shaky penmanship the sign looked to be the work of some demented
mental patient who recently absconded from his cushy padded cell.I
have no doubt that the poor mom who answered that ad thinking she was
adding a touch of whimsy to her three-year-old's birthday would wind
up buried in the woods beyond the post. Thinking it was just
me, I mentioned the sign to a number of people and the reaction was
the same: shocked speechlessness followed by talk of happy places and
hiding under their beds.

Hello? Yes, can you send a half dozen minions of Satan over to celebrate my child's birth?

As an adult, the clown, just seems to
be the embodiment of all we teach our children to beware of. Grown
adults masking their true selves behind makeup dressed in
intentionally deceptive big shoes; they are obviously up to no good.
Stephen King used a clown as the consummate image of evil in the book
"It". John Wayne Gacy painted picture upon picture of
clowns...and we all know how well he turned out. Yet we insist on
inviting clowns to birthday parties and allow them to fill the gaps
between floats in parades. They stroll the pavement at fairs with
their squeaky balloon animals and offer 'whiffs' from their squirty
lapel pin flowers. In fact, at a recent event I saw an entire busload
of 'Clowns for Jesus'. I am pretty sure Our Lord would not have the
following He has now if He wandered the roads of Jerusalem in face paint and asked lepers to 'honk my nose' for salvation.

And think about it. The word 'clown' is
never used in a flattering manner. You have 'clown' pants and 'class
clown' . If a woman wears too much make-up she looks like a 'clown'.
Face it- when was the last time you called someone a 'clown' and
meant it in a complimentary manner?

As a child, I had no idea of the scary
crap waiting for me in the big wide world. But now, after years spent
working in hospital emergency departments and surgical venues, years
spent raising children while married to a member of law enforcement,
very few things truly scare me. But I must admit, outside of Sock
Monkeys, clowns are number one.

I have no doubt that those practising
the art of Clowning will take exception to my thoughts. And that is
fine. Just pack yourselves into that tiny little car that
miraculously seats seventy-five and keep on driving. With anyluck
you'll do us all a favor and run over a pack of SockMonkeys on your
way back to where ever it is that you keep those giant shoes.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Watched the closing ceremony for the Olympics and all I can think is this: Curt Gowdy must be rolling over in his grave. A giant post-houmous head of John Lennon singing while tiny children from The Wall build a replicate of Lennon's head on a stage and now Russel Brand channeling Willi Wonka?

And now FatBoy Slim is emerging from a giant balloon octopus? I had no idea FatBoy was not especially Fat, nor particularly youthful. (This just in from the research department -my husband - FatBoy's name was actually Quieten Leo Cook then Norman Cook. Which as my daughter just pointed out - Who actually changes their name to 'Norman'?) But wait! The Spice Girls are back together. No! Now Eric Idle has just flown out of a cannon and Freddy Mercury is goading the crowd in a sing-a-long.

And whoever this Jesse J chick is, she just landed on my husband's 'list'.

Clearly this was not the Olympics of my youth; an Olympics where gymnasts kept their hair is tiny ponytails at the nape of their necks and guys with enormous porno mustaches won all the swimming medals. This was well before the internets and Google. I would sit glued to the television waiting to catch a glimpse of the culture and lifestyle of countries only seen in National Geographic. Music was provided by oompa bands and orchestras. I spent hours perfecting my Olga Korbut flight off the uneven bars and stuck that landing every time. (Never mind that the bars were in my mind and the neighbors wondered about the 'special girl' in the front yard doing sad cartwheels and speaking in gibberish.)

Now producers feel they must rely on ever increasingly over the top...productions. I don't know why. I still want to see the unique and different in the countries that are not our own. This is one of the reasons that the Olympics are so wonderful. I still cheer for our teams but I also cheer for those that strike a cord for their differences, their sacrifice, their ability to keep on going after a spectacular crash. In the end - I cheer for the achievement of actually competing and I cheer for those seventeen days when the world celebrates its same-ness and not its differences.

I will admit it. As crazy and unexplainable as the opening and closing ceremonies were, I still get teary-eyed when they light the torch and declare the games open and I do it all again with the closing and the promise of more spectacle in two more years in Russia and four more years in Brazil.

So maybe Curt is merely twitching because in the end, Change IS Good...even if I can't figure out what the frack is going on.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Its been a slow week in the Hairnet
spotting biz. I did see one particularly soggy Net lying beside a
storm drain. However, it was a little too dark for a good photo with
the Ipod and frankly, just a little too gross.

A fellow spotter sent out an alert
regarding a guerrilla Hairnet attack in her garden in Tennessee. I
have come to the conclusion, based on the Tennessee location and the
fact that the Hairnet still had a price tag dangling from it that it
was most likely lost and looking for the Grand Ole Opry.

Still, seeing Hairnets is not just
about...Hairnets. It is about keeping your eyes peeled for the
strange and weird things that most people miss in their day to day
lives. Be it an eighty year old man riding a bike in a vintage three
piece suit or a whole roasted chicken, still in the package, lying by
the side of the road. These are the quickly passing sights that take
the boringly everyday to great heights of silliness and wonder.

Which brings me to this weeks Hairnet
RoundUP photo of awesomeness. Allow me to introduce SQuirrel, the
praying gangsta squirrel. SQ lives in the gigantic maple bush at the
side of our yard. (A maple bush, for those that have never seen one,
is a maple tree which was cut down yet through perseverance and bad
pruning managed to continue to grow, sprouting what are now tree
trunk sized offshoots from the stump. It serves as sort of a
Bedford-Sty housing project for squirrels and other urban animals.)

When he is not harassing the cat, SQ
seeks atonement for his various gang related deeds.He says grace
before pillaging the bird feeder. He bows his head before imbibing at
the bath. Sometimes he just stands around looking innocent, hoping
the Animal Control don't come bust him for chewing up the wiring in
the attic.

Ladies and Gentlemen: SQuirrel ~

"Man, those ain't my nuts. Those my cousin's nuts. I was just holding them for him."

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

You have refused to cave to the
pressure of 'super sizing' and still maintain that your tiny boxed,
frozen cakes serve eight when it is quite clear it only serves four.

I purchased a Pepperidge Farms frozen
Red Velvet cake for dessert this evening. I was briefly tempted to
bake an actual red velvet cake but given that is has been hotter than
Mathew McConaughey's shirtless chest here on the Coast of Illinois, I eschewed
the apron clad heat of the oven and took the instant gratification of
the prepared cake.

As a child, Pepperidge Farms cakes were
a delicacy. I was lucky enough to grow up in a home with a stay at
home mom. She was called a 'homemaker'. She baked outstanding
desserts but for special occasions we were indulged with the
purchased bakery item. As I recall, these cakes served eight quite
nicely with a slender slice of semi-frozen cake topped with peel-able
frosting.

It was delicious.

So, imagine my surprise when I opened
the box to find an eight by eight pastry. I studied the box, which
clearly stated 'serves eight'. I cut the cake into fourths. The
fourths into eighths. I was met with laughter and what I believe to
be muttered obscenities. (Okay, the obscenities were coming from me.)

I tried to pass the tiny slices off as
VERY LARGE PETIT FOURS.

In the end, my family of four ate three
fourths of a cake. We are not large people. We just like dessert
served in a reasonable size.

It was delicious.

Here is where I would insert a picture
of the last piece of cake. However, because I sat the still warm
plate of BBQ on top of the box, the peel-able frosting was stuck to
the top of the box and I feel the mangled remains would not be
representative of the spirit of Pepperidge Farms. So instead, I am
inserting a picture of my Mom, with one of her amazing homemade
desserts. Both serves a family of five.

Monday, August 6, 2012

There is a gang of Mean Girls at my
train stop. They stand in a herd with their helmet hair coifs and
their jjill business casual. It is junior high, frizzy hair, homemade
pantsuit bus ride all over again. One of them must be pretty bright
– they have figured out how to wait directly in the spot where the
train door opens. And, they have learned that the Blue line
originates at our stop thus giving everyone a fair shot at a window
seat.

Only they don't take the window seats.
They don't even sit together. Each one takes an aisle seat then –
in clear defiance of commuter train etiquette – they park their
day's supply of purses, lunch bags and totes in the window seat effectively blocking other passengers from sitting next to them.

There is one who exercises her free
will and sits in the window seat, parking her bags in the aisle seat.
I have witnessed her moving her belongings for other riders. Clearly
she is the weakest member.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

I see Hairnets. Everywhere. Well, not
just Hairnets. Toilets broken in half, raw TV dinners – lean
cuisine to be exact, a kid on a bike carrying a human head... (Okay,
it turned out it was just a Halloween mask with a full head of hair,
but still.) I have taken to noticing some unusual things along the
side of the road. But the most consistently spotted and most
disturbing of all are the Hairnets. It started back in July of 2009.
During the four block walk to the parking garage I counted no less
than eight discarded Hairnets. They lay like tiny hair encasement
tumbleweeds on the broken sidewalk. I could almost hear the beginning
strains of High Plains Drifter.

During the next two months I began
spotting Hairnets everywhere. At first they were only out of doors,
lying on the sidewalk or huddled in a corner by the steps, sharing
the warm air duct with last night’s homeless guy. Then they began
to move in doors. I found one flattened on the up ramp of level six.
(Bad parking day.) There were several congregating in the stairwell
leading to my department. A particularly bulky one was lounging on
the bench in the lobby. My sister even found nonchalantly riding the
Metro!

Then the biggest sighting – an entire
half head of hair was spotted lying in the on-coming traffic lane of
Duncan. A Hairnet drifted past. Later that day, a co-worker found not
one but two surrounding her parked car. They were gathering. We were
scared. I began to arm myself with Aqua-Net and we instituted a
‘Hairnet security rating’. Sightings decreased. It was as if
they knew.

I was lulled into a false sense of
security. I left work one Thursday night, late and alone. I had been
warned that it was unsafe but I did not heed the voice of reason. As
I entered the elevator vestibule for my ride up to the down ramp of
level four I spotted it. The net was medium build but with a heavy
mesh. It sat in a ball directly in front of my elevator. I eyed it
warily as the door opened and stepped around it in what I hoped was a nonthreatening yet dominating manner. Once inside the elevator car, I frantically
pressed the door closed button while giving a sympathetic smile and
shrugging as the doors inched shut. I hoped my expression said “so
sorry, I am pushing the button, it just won’t open back up”.

The net was still there the next
morning, waiting…

Sightings of Hairnets are on the rise!
I have people out there – on the front lines – sending me
pictures and it makes me wonder, if we are just now seeing
Hairnets...just what have we been MISSING all these years.

You are probably thinking - wow, a little over dramatic. And what's with the capitalization of 'hairnet', come on, its only a hygiene assistance device. Well...that's exactly what this poor person thought:

Blah Blah...

I'm a landlocked beach bum here on the Coast of Illinois. No...not that Coast, you know, the one with broad shoulders. The other Coast. The one with tug boats and Arches and a bunch of ancient dead guys buried in Mounds.
I am an inadvertent sailor-thanks to my husband and our 15 foot handmade wooden sloop...for which I made the sails!
I am here to promote the beach bum lifestyle, even when surrounded by corn and clay and I hope to point out the everyday weirdness that is easy to miss because once you start seeing hairnets, you will never stop seeing hairnets.

I have a palm tree necklace. It set us back a whole ten dollars, purchased on the boardwalk in Destin, Florida during the first trip ...

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Hey Europe!

Just got a notice, due to the high number of hits in Europe (!!!) that I am required to inform you that there may be cookies attached to this blog. I am told these are tracking cookies. I know. I was disappointed too. I was hoping for a nice gooey chocolate chip or Mexican chocolate. But, NO. There are no chocolate chip cookies. Just computer type cookies. I am not sure what else to do about this. If you are in Europe and reading my blog, first of all, THANKS! Secondly, if you are one of the half dozen Russian type porn sites, STOP IT. And thirdly, if you are one of my five relatives living in Europe, MISS YOU ALL AND LOVE YOU! If there is a problem please contact me Europe. I am a very delightful person and hope to visit you again one day.